


make breath an extension of blessings

by evocates



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blindfolds, Hair-pulling, Light BDSM, M/M, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7829554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Footsteps. Thomas tips his head up, his lips parting when a hand slides through his hair. Broad palm, heavy fingers, smooth thumb tracing the corners of his mouth. Floorboard creaking.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	make breath an extension of blessings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crotalus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crotalus/gifts).



> Porn for the prompts “blindfolds” and Thomas being very into having his hair played with/pulled. Apologies to Daveed Diggs for misusing the lyrics to for his ‘verse in _Good for You_ for BDSM porn. (Yeah, that’s all this fic is.)
> 
> Dedicated to Al (Crotalus) as a makeshift birthday present. Thanks go to Kiki for beta, edits, and encouragement, as always.

The floor is cold beneath Thomas’s knees. There’s an ache in his back and shoulders from the strain of holding his position – spine straight, hands tucked above his hip – but it is a faraway thing. The house is quiet, echoing with its silence. He breathes out through his teeth.

Footsteps. Thomas tips his head up, his lips parting when a hand slides through his hair. Broad palm, heavy fingers, smooth thumb tracing the corners of his mouth. Floorboard creaking. Salt on his tongue as the digit slips inside. He sucks, cheeks hollowing, teeth scraping skin for more of the taste. But the thumb slips out, goes away. Streaks of saliva on Thomas’s cheek.

“James,” he murmurs, and shivers.

“Shhhh,” James shushes him. His fingers brush over Thomas’s eyes, light touches barely felt above the silken scarf that is wrapped around them. It was James who picked it out – the colours bright, oranges and reds and yellows and streaks of blue – the only strip of cloth on Thomas’s body. Thomas tips his head back and feels the scrape of nail over his scalp, down, down to his neck, and then back up again. Heat rushing south, his cock throbbing between his thighs.

“You’ve been so good,” James tell him. Thomas can’t help the whine that wrenches out of him, dropping his head further backwards as James tugs on his hair. Pinpricks of pain, contrasting so beautifully with those gentle strokes now over his cheeks. It’s dark and James’s voice engulfs the world, warm and heavy and sweet.

Metal clinking, leather sliding. “C’mere,” James says.

Thomas leans forward obediently, guided by the hand in his hair. He smells James before he touches him – air thickening with musk. More salt. Hands cupping Thomas’s face, both of James’s thumbs now tracing his lips, getting him to open his mouth. Thomas lets his jaw slacken, breathes in through his nose as he takes James’s cock into his mouth. Solid and heavy, stretching his cheeks wide.

James’s hand tightening in his hair, tugging on the curls. Thomas sinks down, takes more of James’s cock in. Spit filling his mouth, but still not nearly enough to get James properly wet. Not yet.

“God,” James whispers. “Just look at you.”

Pulling back, Thomas tips his head up, grins. “Can’t really do that,” he says. He turns, rubbing his cheek and jaw and blindfold against James’s knee. “This is pretty much getting in the way. ‘S what it’s for.”

He stays like there, trying to look innocent with mouth alone and most likely failing, until he hears James’s rumbling chuckles. He laughs too, shoulders shaking.

Then James grabs him by the hair and shoves him back down. Thomas barely has the time to tuck his teeth behind his lips before James is shoving his cock inside him. “Still too cheeky,” James says, and pulls so hard on Thomas’s hair that he yelps, jaw growing slack as lightning shoots down his spine to pool between his legs.

James fucks into his throat, the head of his cock pushing in too deep. Thomas chokes, laughter dying. His nails scrabble at his wrists, holding on too tight, feeling his own bones. 

Shouldn’t let himself be used like this. Shouldn’t be good to be used like this. But pride no longer matters, nothing matters except James’s fingers toying with the blindfold, rubbing the silk over and over his eyes. Except for James’s cock, filling his mouth, killing the words in his head before they can form. Shouldn’t be good but it is, it is. 

So good that Thomas’s head is starting to spin.

Quiet beep, barely audible. Then that thing that James pushed into him started to _move_.

It’s a thick thing, lumpy, flared base with vine-like metal spreading outwards. The head of it is shoved right against that spot inside, back and forth, back and forth. Like fingers, but too thick; like a cock, but too slick. Thomas shouts the best he can, but James thrusts the sound back down his throat. He thrashes, tries to shake his head, but James’s hand is still on his hair, grip so tight the pain is like sparks bursting behind his eyes. James’s cock is still nudging the back of his throat with every thrust. James’s _voice_ , deep groans echoing and echoing in Thomas’s ears.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, but he’s begging now. Begging without word. Nails scoring deep into his own flesh because he’s not allowed to touch and Thomas can’t even think about disobeying James right now.

Then he can breathe again. Thomas’s head drops backwards, eyes squeezed shut behind the scarf. The silk’s getting wet, ruined entirely, and James is still rubbing it over his eyes, smearing his tears over his cheeks. The toy is still moving inside him, rubbing incessantly, but he can’t speak. His greatest weapon taken from him. His jaw aches but the pain is good, folding over his hair still being pulled.

“Up here,” James says. His voice cuts through the fog easily, but Thomas can’t really move. His head lolls to the side, cheek resting on James’s palm. He hears his own voice, gasping moans, but all that seems far away.

Hands on his cheeks. James’s mouth on him; Thomas parts his lips automatically, letting James take his mouth, licking out the taste of himself. Cold oxygen inside his empty throat. Fingers tugging on his hair again as James nudges him to straighten his legs. Thomas falls forward, unbalancing from the pins and needles on his legs, the insistent pleasure inside him, but James catches him like he always does, strong arms wrapping around Thomas’s torso, drawing him close, hefting him up to the bed. 

“D’you want more, darlin’?” James murmurs. Mouth on his temple, warm breath on the chill-wet of the scarf. Thomas turns towards it, nuzzling by reflex. Rough beard on smooth skin. James’s fingers trailing down his spine, curving around his ass. Thomas arches, gasping, as he draws out the toy and pushes it back it, twists it. His cock is leaking against James’s thigh and his mouth is still dry of words.

“Please,” he manages to find within the depths of himself. “James. Please.”

“Shhh,” James hushes him again. Soft kisses over Thomas’s mouth. Almost but not quite strange in contrast to the steady thrusts the toy is making into Thomas’s hole. He sends Thomas sprawling to the side, says, “Hands and knees, boy,” with such a stern voice, but his mouth is sweet on Thomas’s shoulder.

James loves him and uses him and it should be odd, it shouldn’t make sense, but right now it’s exactly right.

Thomas pushes himself upwards, scrabbling at overly-smooth sheets. The darkness surrounds him, caresses him. James’s fingers down his spine, over the rim of his entrance where it’s stretched around the toy. Thomas’s hands are numb from holding himself too tight, unable to support his weight. He sinks down to his elbows, helplessly whining as James pulls the toy out of him. 

“Not like that,” James says. “You shouldn’t look like that, darlin’.” Arm around his waist. Thomas lets himself be pulled back. The mattress sinks deep beneath his knees, like clouds. James is so solid against him, the rock around which his world turns. “God, you’re so beautiful, Thomas.”

“Not fair,” Thomas says. The words come from a place inside him still solid even when the ground has disappeared, when he breathes nothing but James-warmed stars. “Not fair that I can’t see you when you’re gushing over me.”

Chuckling, James draws a hand over his hair. Tugs on where the strands are tangled by sweat. “No,” he says. “I think this is perfectly fair.”

Before Thomas can protest, before he can find that part of himself that’s still capable of it, James’s hands are on his hips and he’s pushing inside. Thomas is open and still wet from the toy, but there’s a rough burn nonetheless, fire snaking up his spine. He drops forward, held up only by James’s arm, but James steadies him, pulls him back to lean against him, Thomas’s back against his chest. James’s shoulder fits perfectly against the curve of his neck.

“You have been so good,” James murmurs as he starts to slowly rock into him. “So sweet for me, Thomas. So sweet for me like you’re to no one else.”

“Yeah,” Thomas breathes. His hand finds James’s by his side, their fingers tangling together. “Only for you. Only you get to see me like this.”

Some part of him tells him that this isn’t true. There is someone else, there _was_ someone else. But the figure is but a shadow and the name is buried deep within; but there’s only heat and James claiming him, over and over. So Thomas stops trying to search for the answer, lets both name and figure slip out of his fingers.

Like this, just like this, there’s only James here. The bed has disappeared, his weight fully against James’s chest. Time falls from his hands and he doesn’t try to catch it. He’s surrounded by sound: the obscene wet ones of James moving inside him, the rough-harsh rasp of James’s gasp in his ear, his own ragged panting. The air itself has turned into a river, the currents washing over him again and again, pulling him down.

When he comes, he barely realises it. Just a brighter, sharper bolt of lightning than the rest that he’s submerged in. Thomas hears himself groan, feels the ache as the noise drags itself out of his raw throat. James’s hand is around his cock, skin smooth, and James is still fucking him. He’s oversensitive now, he knows, pain edging into the pleasure, but none of that matters either.

Then James pulls at his hair again. Turns his head, and Thomas opens his mouth for the kiss. Breathes in James’s moan, swallows it down and draws it deep into his lung, changing it to liquid ink to scrawl on the inside of his lungs even as James comes, buried deep within.

He falls again. James lays him down on the bed, rearranges his limbs. Every movement careful, James’s fingers stroking over every inch of his skin. Thomas arches up at the touches on his cheeks, trying to reciprocate the kiss but only managing to scrape his teeth over James’s lips. 

Cloth around him. James is talking to him, but his words are lost, nothing but murmurs. Thomas moves when he’s made to move, and part of him notes that James is cleaning him up, tucking blankets around him tight to preserve the warmth. He can feel the sheets against his skin but none of that is as important as the scarf still around his eyes, than James’s soft, soothing fingers in his hair.

Thomas wants to stay in this cloud-soft darkness. But thunderstorms die off into nothing but drizzles, the clouds dissipate, and the currents of the river eventually bring him to shore. He lets out a breath, heavy as a sigh. James’s arms are still around him, so Thomas turns his head to kiss the palm of those fingers that are untying the knot.

“Too bright,” he whines even before the blindfold is pulled away. James chuckles into his ear, but Thomas pouts, trying to pull away from those fingers.

“You can’t sleep with this on,” James says.

“Just watch me,” Thomas challenges. He tries to raise his hands to bat at James’s, but they’re trapped by his sides somehow. Oh, the blankets. James has tucked them so tightly around him, hasn’t released him even though now Thomas is sitting up – when that has happened, he’s not sure – and leaning against him.

“Not playing fair again,” he accuses. “I can’t stop you from doing anything when you have me like this.”

“Maybe I do this because I like you being obedient for a little longer,” James says, voice wry. He has won against the knots, but Thomas keeps his eyes stubbornly closed and face pressed into his shoulder. “Because you’ll just misbehave once I let you go.” 

_Like you’re already doing now_ goes unsaid, but Thomas can hear it loud and clear in the air around them again. He doesn’t bother stifling the grin.

“But you like me misbehaving,” he points out, nuzzling James’s shoulder and peppering tiny kisses on the skin just because he feels like it. 

“I don’t know,” James says, sounding amused. “I might prefer it if you’re docile all the time.”

Lifting his head, Thomas leans in and tries to nip at James’s mouth. It takes him a couple of attempts because his eyes are still closed – it’s the principle of the thing, even though the soft orange light of their bedroom is already filtering through his lids – and he shakes his head a little, tugging on the captured bottom lip.

“Nah,” he says, words barely comprehensible. “That’s just boring.”

James laughs again. James doesn’t laugh often, practically never when they’re out of the bedroom, so Thomas is entirely justified by the warmth he feels rising inside him. He tips his head towards the hand sinking into his hair, nuzzling against it, grin widening.

When James kisses him again, Thomas presses back properly. His throat gives up a pleased little hum, and he laughs, the sound high-pitched and shivery, as James tugs on the strands.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, careful to not let the light overwhelm him. There are still stars anyway, and when they clear…

Ah, this is the reason why he always regrets wearing the scarf, no matter how good the darkness makes him feel. He misses the way James looks at him, affection and indulgence and warmth mixed in those dark eyes. James looks at him like no one else does, like Thomas is precious and adored.

He wrenches his arms out of their blanket trap and cups his hands over James’s face. Leans in until their foreheads touch, his gaze never leaving James’s. 

“Hey,” he whispers.

Thumb stroking over his temple, fingers jerking light on his curls. “Hey yourself,” James says. His lips are curved into a smile that’s exclusively Thomas’s – small, lopsided, and entirely helpless. Thomas can’t help himself: he has to kiss it.

“You like me misbehaving,” he says against James’s mouth.

“Probably a little too much,” James agrees, his voice a rumbling purr against Thomas’s lips.

They pull apart. Thomas licks the remnants of those words, tucks them somewhere inside himself. Something in his eyes must have shifted somehow, because James is laughing again, his hands moving down Thomas’s body to release him from the blankets so they can lay down together, side by side.

Not good enough. Thomas inches sideways, a particularly graceful crab as he swings his leg over James’s thigh and rests his head on top of the broad chest.

“I spoil you too much,” James says. But he’s back to carding through Thomas’s hair again, so Thomas only laughs.

Reaching up, he brings that hand down, pressing a kiss on top of the knuckles. “Yeah,” he grins. “You really do.”

James’s hand squeezes his. He kisses Thomas’s hair. Thomas feels him smile against his skin. There’s warmth all around him, filling him inside, and he focuses on that feeling as he lets James’s fingers in his hair soothe him into sleep.

Tomorrow he’ll complain about the tangles. Tomorrow James will help to get them out, too. It’s something sweet to look forward to.

**Author's Note:**

> Either I have writer’s block or the motherboard of writing-machine!me broke after something like 18 months of non-stop writing. This fic is my way of trying to get whatever it is back into working order. I don’t even know whether this is good. Please validate me via comments.
> 
> To Al: Your real birthday present will come at some point when my life has calmed down enough. I promise.


End file.
